by Shari Lapena
She spots Tom—in jeans and a plain T-shirt, tall and angular, his hair wild—walking toward the elevators. When he sees her, he seems caught off guard. Perhaps he isn’t that happy to see her here. She’s not entirely surprised. Maybe he and Karen want their privacy. Some people are like that.
But she needs to know what’s going on, so she catches his eye and holds it, and he makes his way slowly over to where she’s sitting.
She regards him with concern. “Tom. I’m so glad to see you. I’ve been trying to call you. I’m so sorry about—”
“Yeah,” he cuts her off abruptly. He sits down beside her, leans forward, and puts his elbows on his knees. He looks like hell, as if he hasn’t slept for the last twenty-four hours. He probably hasn’t. “I’ve been so worried,” she says. Tom had called her twice the night before—the first time to see if she had any idea where Karen was, and the second time, later, from the hospital to tell her that Karen had been in a car accident. But that call had been brief, and he’d cut it short without giving her any details. Now she’s desperate to know. She wants to hear everything. “Tell me what happened.”
He faces straight ahead, not looking at her. “She drove her car into a utility pole.”
“What?”
He nods slowly, as if he’s unbearably tired. “The police say she was speeding, that she ran a red light. Somehow she went into a pole.”
Brigid stares at him for a minute. “What did she say happened?” Brigid says.
He looks at her now, and she sees a kind of helplessness in his eyes. “She says she doesn’t remember. Not the accident, or anything leading up to it,” Tom says. “She doesn’t remember last night at all.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” Tom says. “The doctor told me it’s normal after an injury like hers.”
Brigid shifts her eyes away from his and back down to her knitting. “So—will she get her memory back?” Brigid asks.
“They think so. I hope so. Because I’d sure as hell like to know what she was doing.” He hesitates, as if he’s not sure he wants to tell her something more. Then he says, “She left without her purse, and forgot to lock the door. Like she was in a hurry.”
“That’s odd,” Brigid says. She’s silent for a moment. Finally she says, “I’m sure she’ll be fine.” It sounds so inadequate. He doesn’t seem to notice.
He sighs heavily and says, “And I have to deal with the police.”
“The police?” Brigid asks quickly, looking up at him again. She notices lines in his face now that she hadn’t noticed before.
“They’re investigating the accident,” Tom tells her. “They’re probably going to charge her with something.”
“Oh!” Brigid says and puts her knitting aside. “I’m so sorry, Tom. It’s not what you need right now, is it?”
“No.”
Her voice softens. “If you need a shoulder, you know I’m here for you, right? For both of you.”
“Sure,” he says. “Thanks.” He stands up. “I’m going to go get a coffee. Want one?”
She shakes her head. “No, thanks, I’m good. But can you let Karen know I’m here?”
“Sure. But you might be wasting your time. I don’t think she’s up to seeing anybody today. She’s in a lot of pain so they’re giving her heavy-duty pain meds. She’s pretty groggy and disoriented. Maybe you should just go home.”
“I’ll wait a bit longer. In case she feels up to it,” Brigid says and picks up her knitting again. Once Tom has turned his back to her and is headed toward the elevators, she looks up from her knitting and watches him. She can’t believe Karen wouldn’t want to see her, just for a minute. She won’t stay long. When Tom disappears inside the elevator and she hears the doors slide closed, she gathers up her things and heads for room 421.
—
Karen shifts her legs restlessly in the white sheets. She’s propped up against the pillows. This morning, she already feels somewhat better and is thinking and speaking more clearly. She wonders how long she’ll be here.
There’s a light tap on her partially open door and she smiles weakly. “Brigid,” she says. “Come in.”
“Is it okay?” Brigid says quietly, approaching the bed. “Tom said you might not want to see me.”
“Why would Tom say that? Of course I’m glad to see you. Come, sit.” She pats the bed feebly.
“Gosh, look at all the flowers,” Brigid says.
“They’re all from Tom,” Karen says. “He’s drowning me in roses.”
“I can see that,” Brigid says, sitting lightly on the side of the bed. She studies Karen closely. “You look awful.”
“Do I?” Karen says. “They haven’t let me near a mirror. I feel like FrankenKaren.” The banter is an attempt to keep at bay the fear she’s felt ever since she became aware that she’d been in an accident—an accident that she can’t remember anything about. Karen’s grateful to see Brigid, her best friend. It’s a distraction and a relief from her almost overwhelming anxiety. It feels normal, at a time when very little else does.
She doesn’t know what happened last night. But she knows that whatever happened, it was terrifying, and it still threatens her. Not knowing is making her crazy. She doesn’t know what to do.
“Thank God you’re going to be okay, Karen. I’ve been worried sick.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You had an accident. It’s not your fault.”
Karen wonders how much Brigid knows, what Tom’s told her. Probably not much. Tom has never particularly liked Brigid; she has no idea why. They just never seemed to hit it off. It’s made things awkward at times.
“It’s awful, Brigid,” Karen says hesitantly. “I don’t remember what happened. Tom says I was driving erratically, speeding, and he keeps asking me—”
At that moment, Tom enters the room, carrying two coffees in paper cups. Karen sees him stifle his annoyance at finding Brigid sitting on the bed, but he doesn’t fool her. She feels the temperature in the room drop a couple of degrees. Tom hands Karen one of the coffees.
“Hi, Brigid,” Tom says casually.
“Hi,” Brigid answers, glancing at him briefly. She turns back to face Karen. “I just wanted to see you with my own eyes, make sure you’re all right,” she says, getting up off the bed. “I’ll go now, leave you two alone.”
“You don’t have to go,” Karen protests.
“You need your rest,” Brigid says. “I’ll come back tomorrow, okay?” She smiles at Tom and slips out of the room.
Karen frowns at Tom and says, “Why do you dislike Brigid so much, anyway?”
“I don’t dislike her.”
“Really? You obviously weren’t happy to see her here.”
“I’m just being protective,” Tom protests. “You know what the doctor said. You need quiet.”
She looks at him over her coffee cup, not quite believing him.
—
Later that afternoon, when Tom has gone home to get some rest, Dr. Fulton returns. Karen remembers him from the night before.
“How are you today?” he asks.
He keeps his voice low and quiet, and she’s thankful for that. Her headache has been getting worse throughout the day. “I don’t know. You tell me,” she says cautiously.
He gives her a professional smile. “I think you’re going to be okay. Other than the concussion, everything else is pretty minor.” He goes through his routine of looking in her eyes with his little light, while continuing to talk to her softly. “The only worrying thing is that you can’t remember the accident, but that’s not too uncommon. Your memory will most likely come back in a bit.”
“So you’ve seen this before,” she says slowly, “where people lose their memory?”
“Yes, I have.”
“And does it always come back?”
“Not always, no.” He’s taking her pulse now.
“But usually?”
“Yes.”
“How long does it take?” she asks anxiously. It must be soon. She must know exactly what happened.
“Depends. Could be days, weeks. Everybody’s different.” He checks something on a chart and says, “How’s the pain?”
“Bearable.”
He nods. “It’ll get better. We’ll keep you for observation for another day or two. You’re going to have to take it easy when you get home. I’ll give you a prescription that you can get filled here at the pharmacy before you go. And I’ve given your husband instructions on how to manage a concussion like yours.”
“Is there anything I can do to help me get my memory back?” she asks.
“Not really.” He smiles at her. “Just give it time.” And then he leaves her alone with her simmering panic.
Later, a new nurse comes in, calm and pleasant, acting as if everything is all right. But everything is not all right.
“Can I have a mirror?” Karen asks.
“Sure, let me go fetch one,” the nurse says.
The nurse returns with a hand mirror. “Don’t be too shocked by what you see,” she says. “There’s some superficial damage, but nothing that won’t heal. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
Karen takes the mirror with trepidation. She’s stunned to see that she is almost unrecognizable—her normally fine features and good skin are disguised by the horrific swelling and deep black bruises. But it’s her own confused, frightened eyes that bother her most. She hands the mirror back to the nurse without saying a word.
—
Late that night, two teenagers walk home hand in hand from the movie theater. It’s a long walk, but it’s a beautiful night; they want to be together, and they have nowhere they can go. Finally he pulls her up against a wall in the dark at the back of a plaza and kisses her. He’s older than her, and he’s going slow—not like the boys who fumble and rush and have no idea what they’re doing. She kisses him back.
There’s a loud clatter over by the dumpster and they break apart. A man emptying garbage from a restaurant stares at them. Her date puts his arm around her protectively, sheltering her. “Come on,” he says. “I know a place.”
Her body pounds with excitement. She could have gone on kissing him like that forever. She wants to be alone with him, but—. She stops. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere we can have some privacy.” He pulls her closer. “If that’s what you want.” He kisses her again. “Or I can walk you home.”
Right now she would follow him anywhere. She gives him her hand and they cross the street, but she hardly notices where they’re going. She’s only conscious of the feel of his hand in hers, of what she wants. They arrive at a door. He pushes it open. He tilts his head at her. “Come on. It’s okay. There’s nobody here.”
She crosses the threshold and he immediately takes her in his arms. He’s kissing her again but something’s bothering her. There’s a smell. She pulls away from him and he seems to notice it, too. They both see it at the same time. There’s a body sprawled on the floor, stained with blood.
She screams. He puts his hand gently against her mouth, shushing her. “Shhhhhh, shhhhhh, you have to be quiet!”
She stops screaming and stares, horrified, at the man on the ground. He drops his hand from her mouth, and she whispers, “Is he dead?”
“He must be.” He approaches the man and looks down at him. She doesn’t dare come any closer. She’s afraid she might be sick.
She turns and bolts out of the building and stops in the street, gasping for air. He’s right behind her. She looks up at him in anguish. “We have to call the police.” It’s the last thing she wants to do. She told her mother she was at a girlfriend’s tonight.
“No,” he says. “Let someone else find him and call the police. It doesn’t have to be us.”
She knows what he’s afraid of. She’s only fifteen. He’s eighteen.
“Look,” he says urgently, “it would be different if the guy were still alive, but there’s nothing we can do for him. Let’s go. Someone else will find him.”
She thinks it’s wrong, but she’s relieved to hear him say it. She nods. She just wants to go home.
Chapter Six
Just as she does every morning, Brigid sits in her favorite chair by the large picture window in her living room, looking out. Brigid’s house is directly across the street from Tom and Karen’s house. Brigid waits at the window with her cup of coffee watching to see Tom leave for the hospital.
Brigid’s husband, Bob, steps into the living room to say good-bye on his way out the door to work.
“I’m going to be late tonight,” he says. “Might not make it home for dinner. I’ll probably just grab something.”
She doesn’t answer; she’s deep in thought.
“Brigid?” he asks.
“What?” she says, turning to him.
“I said I’ll be home late. We have a visitation tonight.”
“Fine,” she says absently.
“What are you up to today?” he asks.
“I’m going to the hospital to see Karen again.” Maybe they will get more time together today.
“Good, that’s good,” Bob says. He lingers in the doorway for a moment uncertainly, then leaves.
She knows he worries about her.
He doesn’t really care what she does today. He just thinks it isn’t good for her to have too much time on her hands. All he’s really interested in is if she’s keeping her appointments. So she always tells him that she is.
—
It was a strange enough accident to begin with, Fleming thinks—the driver a supposedly respectable housewife in the wrong part of town, no obvious drugs or alcohol found to explain her behavior. And now the doctor is telling them that she has amnesia.
You’ve got to be kidding, Fleming thinks.
“How convenient,” Officer Kirton, standing beside him, says. They stop briefly outside Karen Krupp’s door. Fleming puts out a hand to stop the doctor. “Could she be faking it?” he asks quietly.
Dr. Fulton looks at him in surprise, as if it hadn’t occurred to him. “I don’t think so,” he says slowly. “She has a serious concussion.”
Fleming nods thoughtfully. The three of them enter the small private room. Karen Krupp’s husband is already sitting in the only chair. It’s crowded with all of them there. Karen Krupp, looking bruised and battered, eyes them warily.
“Mrs. Krupp,” he begins. “I’m Officer Fleming and this is Officer Kirton. We hoped you could answer a few questions for us.”
She sits up straighter against the pillows. Tom Krupp shifts nervously.
“Yes, of course,” she says. “But—I don’t know if the doctor has told you, but I can’t remember anything about the accident yet.” She frowns apologetically.
“You’ve been told what happened?” Kirton asks.
She nods uncertainly. “Yes, but I don’t actually remember any of it.”
“That’s too bad,” Fleming says. He can tell that their presence here distresses her, although she’s trying to hide it. He says, “The accident occurred at the intersection of Prospect and Davis, in the south end of the city.” He pauses. She looks nervously back at him, but says nothing. “You live in the north end. Why do you think you might have been in that part of town?”
She shakes her head, winces a little. “I—I don’t know.”
“Can you make a guess?” he asks gently. When she doesn’t answer, he says, “That’s a part of town known for drugs, gangs, crime. Not the sort of place a housewife from the suburbs is likely to visit.”
She shrugs helplessly and says in a small voice, “I’m sorry. . . .” Her husband reaches out and squeezes her hand.
&nb
sp; Fleming hands her a piece of paper.
“What’s this?” she asks nervously.
“I’m afraid it’s a ticket for reckless driving, which is a very serious offense in New York.”
She looks at it and bites her lip. “Do I need to get a lawyer?” she asks uncertainly.
Fleming says, “That would be a good idea. It’s considered a crime. If convicted, you will have a criminal record, and might have to do some jail time.” He sees the shock register on her face. Tom Krupp looks as if he’s going to be sick. Fleming glances at Kirton, and the two of them nod good-bye and leave the room.
—
Dr. Fulton follows Fleming and Kirton out. As hectic as his life as an emergency physician is, he’s had enough time to wonder what his patient was doing racing red lights in the worst part of the city. She seems like a nice woman. Educated, well spoken—not the kind you’d expect to do that kind of thing. Clearly, her husband is at a loss, too.
He looks at the officers walking away from him down the hall—two solid figures in black uniforms standing out among a sea of the nurses’ pastels. He wonders briefly if he should summon them back. But the moment has passed, and he lets them go.
Karen Krupp had been disoriented when they brought her in two nights ago, slipping in and out of consciousness. She hadn’t seemed to know who she was, hadn’t been able to give them her own name. She’d been agitated, and kept repeating something, he thinks it was a man’s name. He can’t remember what it was—it had been a crazy night in the ER—but he’s pretty sure it wasn’t Tom. It’s been bothering him. Maybe one of the nurses will remember.
He doesn’t think she’s faking the amnesia. He suspects she wants to know what happened that night as much as her husband does.
—
In the evening—it’s now almost forty-eight hours since the accident—Tom leaves the hospital and makes his way to his car at the far end of the parking lot. Karen had seemed distracted and upset during his time with her. The visit from the police officers earlier in the day has them both worried. The thought of Karen ending up with a criminal record, the thought of her possibly going to jail, even if only briefly—he’s been Googling reckless driving in New York—he can’t bear to think about it. He takes a deep breath. Perhaps they will be lenient. He has to be strong; he tries to put the police charges out of his mind for now.